


Light Smoke and Heavy Ink

by BeachSpirit



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Art Student!Steve, Big Steve, Bucky the tall dark and mysterious stranger from the library that Steve has a massive crush on, Friends setting friends up, M/M, More tags will be added when needed, Not skinny Steve, Rating for later chapters, Smoking, Smoking Kink, Steve has a thing for Bucky smoking, this was an excuse to vent my BroTP feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-27 23:27:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2710577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeachSpirit/pseuds/BeachSpirit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers is an art student at Shield University and has been harbouring a crush on that guy smoking outside the library, but hasn't spoken to him and has no idea who he is. His friends might though, of which Steve is blissfully unaware. </p><p>Not all lessons are in a classroom.<br/>(Yup, went there with the cheesy line. My summary skills suck I'm sorry)<br/>College AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Steve

Pick up any prospectus for Shield University, internationally renowned school for both art and science degrees, and there's guaranteed to be several photographs of a golden campus, glowing burnt orange with fall leaves and looking positively picturesque. It was one of the first things that Steve Rogers fell in love with, way back when he did a campus tour when he came for his interview, armed with a portfolio of his very best work. Steve loved fall. The colours, the landscape, the crisp air and the smell of approaching frost. It was inspiring, artistically. 

Today, Steve is in the Main Library. It's old and wooden, and full of old books that smell like he imagines heaven does. The rows of cracked spines between the shelving units are shrouded in darkness, while the main work area on the main floor is flooded with natural daylight from the floor-to-ceiling windows that run the whole length of the back wall, giving a perfect view of the grass, currently splattered with piles of red and orange and yellow foliage. 

Steve sits in his favourite workplace by the window. It seems like all the others, but the desk is in the perfect place - light from the big windows and skylights falling perfectly for drawing. Today, Steve's laptop is open and a journal article about pointillism and the artists known for it is on the screen, but Steve isn't paying it any attention.

Instead, he's staring out of the window, sketchbook balanced on the knee that's braced against the desk with his pencil in hand, lightly skittering over the page. Gentle, delicate flicks of his wrist leaving faint grey lines across the paper. 

There's nothing unusual about the scene: Young art student, captivated by the beauty of the changing seasons, has to immediately capture it on paper. 

Except - except he isn't. The campus scenery is captivating, sure, but not nearly as captivating as Steve's real subject, back in that spot again, for the third Wednesday in a row. 

The Guy is about the same age as he is, Steve guesses, also guessing that Steve is maybe a couple of inches taller. The Guy is wearing faded black skinny jeans that look like they've been spray-painted into his legs - good legs, Steve thinks absently - but that slouch a little on his hips. The Guy's once white t-shirt looks carefully frayed and the elbows of his leather jacket methodically scuffed, but he doesn't look pretentious, or like he's trying too hard to be 'cool'. He pulls it off, somehow, and Steve feels neither awe nor jealousy, just a sharp pan of longing that he pointedly ignores. Most of The Guy's face is, as always, hidden behind a curtain of brown hair, some of which has been messily pulled back into a ponytail. Between the strands flickering around his face in the breeze and the classic black shades covering his eyes, most of The Guy's facial features are hidden somehow. But that's not where Steve's focus is. Steve can't tear his eyes away from The Guy's mouth: even from a distance, Steve thinks that he can make out full, red lips, in a god-damn perfect bow, surrounded by light stubble. What's really got Steve's attention, though, is the way that The Guy takes a long drag on a cigarette, holds on to it in his lungs for a few seconds, and then lazily blows a cloud of smoke into the air to be carried away in wisps and curls by the wind.

Steve absent-mindedly brings the end of his pencil to his mouth and sucks on it as The Guy inhales on his cigarette. A rush of grey smoke appears as The Guy exhales through his mouth and nose, chin tilted downwards towards his chest, the hand with his cigarette resting down by his hip. Steve idly imagines what it would be like if he was right there, the smell of smoke clawing at his nose and the back of his throat, watching as The Guy exhales, probably in Steve's direction, after taking another drag on the cigarette between his sinful lips, the action makes him hollow out his cheeks - 

No, God, no. Well, that's an inappropriate thought to have in a library, Steven Grant Rogers, Steve scolds himself and shifts uncomfortably in his chair. He lowers his knee from against the desk and notices, with a flicker of embarrassment that makes the tops of his ears glow, how his pants feel just that little bit tighter. 

He glances up and - damn it - The Guy is gone again. He's probably stubbed out his cigarette and headed to class, or to work, or wherever it was he went that Steve wasn't. 

Steve sighs and lets his sketchbook fall closed, glancing back at his laptop. The clock in the bottom of the screen informs it that it's 12:38 - which means that Steve is due to meet his friend Natasha for coffee in approximately twelve minutes. Silently cursing himself for getting so caught up in how beautiful - yes, Steve thought that that was the right word, - a total stranger was that he'd lost track of time. He hastily shoves his sketchbook, pencils and laptop into his messenger bag and slings it over his shoulder, snatching his coat from the back of his chair and rushing towards the doors. 

 

*** 

Somehow, Steve is a mere five minutes late for meeting Natasha, but she still fixes him with her cool green-eyed gaze as he drops into his chair, the Americano that Natasha ordered for him already on the table. 

"Where've you been?" her eyebrows raise. "I know for a fact that you're free from ten, Rogers. I ran across campus from Political Science for you." 

"Working," Steve says, only slightly haughtily which he mentally applauds himself for, seeing as it's a huge lie. "You know libraries. Never know what time it is or how long you've been in one. It's like a vortex." 

Natasha hums and takes a sip of her chai latte. "What have you been working on?" She nods to his bag, slumped on the floor with the corner of his sketchbook peeking out. "Show me?" 

"Not much," Steve says breezily, and he sees behind Natasha's near-permanent poker face that she's a little stung. Guilt gnaws at his stomach. 

Natasha has always been one of his biggest supporters, ever since she had started dating his roommate, Clint, and she'd asked to see Steve's work. Natasha and Clint had been dating for over a year now, and Steve and Natasha had become good friends. They'd even managed to end up in the same Modern American Literature class this semester. 

"Maybe later," Steve says. Natasha pouts at him for a long moment. Steve huffs. "Oh, fine." 

She beams at him and bats her eyelashes.

"Thank you, Steeeeeeeve." 

"Don't bat those lashes at me, Romanoff, you know it doesn't work." 

"I know. Clint isn't jealous though. I'm pretty sure I'm not your type. Not exactly tall, dark and handsome." 

Steve rolls his eyes good-naturedly as he produces the sketchbook.

"There have been a few girls," he teases. "And you're a beautiful woman, I must say." 

"Smooth," Nat says, with the little huff of breath that Steve knows is the Natasha Romanoff Equivalent of a snort, one side of her mouth quirking up. "Still not your type." 

Steve passes her the book and she skims it with practiced ease. 

"We've been looking at pointillism, where you make painting out of doing tiny dots over and over and building them up, it's looks really great, that's on some of the pages, and the portrait thing is still going on -" 

"I can see that," Nat says, she's paused at a page and is peering at it. "Who's this?" 

"Oh um," Steve blushes from the neck up like a damn thermometer. Of course, Natasha's skimmed through to the exact page featuring The Guy, the hot-smoking-stranger, that he'd been working on thirty minutes ago. "That's just a - a guy. Well, our professor said to use inspiration from real people we see around the place and that guy's stance was interesting. Plus, y'know, the smoking. It's a challenge to sketch." 

"Mm hmm," Nat says, closes the book and hands it back with a smile. "So, let's get down to business and discuss The Role Of The Divine in the book." 

Steve nods and fishes for his notes, trying not to let his mind wander back to The Guy in the leather jacket, with his cigarette. 

He misses the fleeting look on Natasha's face, which is probably a good thing, because Steve knows her well enough that the expression would have worried him that she was up to something.


	2. Bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky helps Natasha out, and she asks him a question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically a pile of brotp feels and sass so I'm (not) sorry

It's incredibly easy to spot Natasha Romanoff, even from a distance. As Bucky jogs across the grass to meet her, his notebooks clutched to his chest. He can clearly see her red hair whipping in the wind like a flame as her arms hug her maroon jacket closer to her petite body, clinging to the curve of her hips. She juts her chin out a fraction as he stumbles to a halt in front of her. 

"You're late. What is it with people slacking off today?" she sighs wearily. 

"Sorry, my queen," Bucky says, panting hard, shifting his books to one arm and raking a hand through his hair. For once he actually isn't being sarcastic. They were cutting it fine for their Russian class, but he'd left his kit bag in his room and had had to run back and fetch it for Natasha's dance practice, for which her dance partner was too sick to do, and Bucky had so gallantly volunteered as a former dancer himself. 

"Hm. You can make it up to me by working extra hard later," Natasha smirks at him coyly and raises her eyebrows in a pretty suggestive manner, laughing at the face Bucky pulls in response. 

"Wow," Bucky snorts. "If I didn't know better, I'd say 'overt'. Or, wait, maybe, just this once, mind, I don't know," he quips and fakes clutching a hand to his chest dramatically. "Does Barton know?" 

"In your dreams, Barnes," and there it is, that minuscule quirk of Romanoff's lips. 

"Not quite." 

"'Cause those dreams are still featuring Gosling?" 

"You bet your ass they are," Bucky grins as Natasha actually laughs at him. 

"He's a married man, Barnes." 

"Hm." 

"He's a father." 

"That's supposed to be a negative? Ever heard the phrase 'hot dad'? 'DILF'?" Bucky smirks. 

"Jesus, please control yourself," Natasha grins, holding the door to their Russian class for him.

"Thanks, who said chivalry was dead," Bucky says, slumping into a rickety plastic chair and flicking his writing pad open to a clean sheet. 

"I know, I'm your knight in shining armour," Natasha smirks, holding a pen out to him before tauntingly pulling it away as he reaches for it. Bucky sticks his lower lip out and does his best puppy dog eyes, hoping she'll take pity on him. She rolls her eyes and throws the pen in his direction. 

"Oof!" Bucky clutches his chest where the pen ricochets off of it. "Oh god, I think I've cracked a rib -" 

The professor enters and starts meddling with the projector until a PowerPoint slideshow appears. 

"Mm hmm, well heal fast, James," Natasha says. "Practice is gonna be brutal. Thanks for stepping in, by the way. I can't wait to whip you into shape, later." 

"Woah, kinky." 

"I know you'd love it," Nat drawls, sipping from her water bottle as the professor sifts through his notes for today's class. 

"Is Clint aware of your habit of hitting on your mutual friends? Does he even know about your apparently kinky sex habits?" 

"Oh, Clint-" 

"I didn't actually want the details, but thanks anyway." 

"Don't lie to me Barnes, that one time with me would've been the best night of your life." 

"I'm fucking gay, Tasha. And it kinda was. Only because I got the biggest pain in my ass around, AKA my best friend in the world, outta it."

"Oh god, you're such a sap, I feel nauseous. I feel physically sick." 

"Tasha you know I love to gush. Don't want the fire? Don't light the match." 

"Touché. Now shut up and learn some Russian." 

*** 

"Can we take a fucking break?" 

Bucky's gasping, hands braced on his knees as he looks up at Natasha through sweat-soaked bangs. His black tank is drenched in sweat, as are his ancient dancing tights. They're a little tight, having been screwed up in a ball at the bottom of his wardrobe and unworn for years. 

"Please try to keep up, James. Pacha can't help having the 'flu, but you can help being a lazy jerk and help your apparent 'biggest pain in the ass' out with her show routine." 

"I haven't danced in years, go easy on me," Bucky groans, swigs from his water bottle and goes over to the docking station to restart the track. "OK. Again." 

Bucky isn't bad. He's actually pretty good, considering how long he hasn't danced for. Then again, nobody would look 'good' in comparison to Natasha. She's been dancing since she was in diapers, apparently. Her current partner, Pacha, is an international student. Romanian, tall, white blond hair, lean, good-looking guy. 

"God, I can't wait for Prince Charming to stop sneezing and get back here," Bucky groans a few hours later, when Natasha is satisfied that they've done enough for the day. It's starting to go dark outside. 

"Prince Charming who've you've vehemently avoided for years?" 

"Past one night stands are always a trickily navigated area," Bucky pulls a face and dabs at the sweat on his face and neck with a gym towel. 

"Does it count as navigating if you sail in the opposite direction?" Natasha says as she too packs away her things. "He's happy with his current girlfriend. Don't think he took you never calling too hard." 

"Yes it does, and I'm thrilled for him, really. She must love hearing his voice as much as he does." 

"You're a disaster and a bitch, James," she smiles wryly and rolls her eyes at him as she fastens her bag's zipper. Then, she does a Thing that always makes Bucky's heart fall out of his ass in fear. She turns to him slightly and gives him an appraising look out of the corner of her eye, before turning to face him properly. "So? You seeing anyone?" 

"Well that came out of nowhere," Bucky says sarcastically. "Jeez, you sound like my mom."

"Well, pardon me for being an interested friend." 

"Oh, don't sul-" 

"James, you know I'm not serious." 

"Mm. And no, by the way. I am not. Single and carefree and all that." 

Natasha doesn't say anything but Bucky can feel a weird vibe radiating from her, one that he doesn't recognise. Which, as he thinks he knows Nat pretty well, is concerning. 

She's up to something. 

"So," she says, almost carefully, which is extremely weird. She and Bucky are most certainly never filtered around each other. Their mothers would have coronaries if they overheard half of even their tamer conversations. "Are you free on Saturday?" 

"You askin' me out on a date, Romanoff?" Bucky bats his eyelashes and fakes being coy. He gasps and smacks a hand to his mouth over-dramatically. "But what'll your fella say? You rationed, ain'tcha? I don't want no big muscled man after m-" 

"Don't lie to yourself, Barnes," she cuts him off. "And no, unless you call it a friend date." 

"Then sure." 

"Cool, I'll meet you at the track at nine-thirty tomorrow." 

"NINE-THIRTY? What the hell, Nat, that's -" 

"A reasonable, daylight hour, yes. There are two nines in the day, James. Don't let me down," she points a finger at him as she snatches up her bag and walks out the studio door, calling over her shoulder. "See you there!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So obviously one of Natasha's things is ballet dancing, but I liked the idea of Bucky dancing too. Sort of a nod to their mutual hydra connection in the (very distant from here) canon. Plus Bucky loved to dance. This is just a different kind. 
> 
> This isn't even a big thing I just felt compelled to explain myself I'm sorry thank you so much for reading the chapter and putting up with my rambles.

**Author's Note:**

> I obviously own none of the characters et al here - this is just some fun. All the grammar mistakes are mine. 
> 
> My first time back on the writing train for a while. Constructive criticism always appreciated!


End file.
